


Hoobaale

by Tambourine



Series: Between the Devil and the Deep [2]
Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Gen, Military
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tambourine/pseuds/Tambourine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pearson Hardman isn't quite the same without Mike and Mike isn't quite the same without Pearson Hardman. But they will make it work. Somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The opening Somali and title comes from the song "Hoobaale" by K'naan. It has a very unique sound and some of the lyrics really struck a chord with me when I first heard it. The translated section is one of the few that translates well into English, but the overall message of the verse is something like: I know that my country is not perfect. It has its flaws and despite them, I love my home and would fight for it. 
> 
> I may go back and add/edit the archive warnings once I get more written but, as of now, none apply. At the most, I'd probably add one for violence, just to err on the side of caution. 
> 
> Less seriously, I'm going to try my hardest to get into a regular updating schedule with this one. I'm seriously cutting back the amount of time I spend in the lab so once I get my work schedules I should be able to sit down and set aside a block of time dedicated solely to this.

_“Inaa dhiig dhulkene u hurna way haboontahaye.”_

I would shed blood for my country and, if necessary, die for it.

 

_You have one new message._

_Message One._

_“Hey Gram. I made it to Little Creek and have been in-processed and everything. I can’t stay on the phone for too long right now, it’s getting late, but I’ll call back some other time. Say hi to everyone for me. Talk to you later. Love you. Bye.”_

_To replay this message, press three. To mark this message for deletion, press five. To save, press nine. For more options, press pound._

_Message saved._

_There are no new messages. Main menu._

Call ended.


	2. Chapter 2

It was past midnight and the office was too quiet. 

The majority of the associates and other staff had long since gone home and only a few, more dedicated individuals remained in the building. 

Harvey Specter was one such individual. 

He didn’t do it out of desire; he had already earned his place amongst the senior partners and had racked up enough billable hours and high-profile clients to be a strong candidate for managing partner one day. He did it out of necessity. The fact of the matter was that he wasn’t as productive as he once had been. Something that could be attributed to his former associate.

It wasn’t that his new associate was incompetent, because he wasn’t (well, not completely), but that Harold just couldn’t live up to the legacy of his predecessor. 

To be fair, it would be extremely difficult, if not impossible to live up to the standards set by one Michael Ross. If Harvey was being completely honest with himself, the only reason _he_ could live up to that standard was years of knowledge and experience (and natural talent, he’d add). 

And speaking of Michael Ross, he had heard almost nothing from the younger man since he had left the firm. He had heard from Edith that Mike was at Little Creek and then had been CC’d on a quick email to her with an address, but since then nothing. And he wasn’t the only one. It wasn’t that he was worried (because he wasn’t, not at all), but it was all just a bit strange. 

Edith had told him not to worry too much about it (and he wasn’t worried, why did everyone think he was worried). She told him he had probably gotten his orders at Little Creek and had been whisked off to training somewhere and his mail was going through many redirects and transfers. It could take weeks for him to get his mail, depending on where he was, and a few more weeks for them to get a response by the post. She assured him that as soon as he got access to a computer, then he would reply. 

He did know that. He _had_ looked into how long it could take for Mike to get a package that was mailed, out of curiosity more than anything, he told himself (up to 75 days if he was in Europe but the “AE” part of his address meant that he was supposedly somewhere in the Africa/Middle East region so it should be a month, tops). It had been a little over a month and a half, though, and no one had heard anything from him. 

Out of habit, he checked his email. 

Nothing. 

Mail wouldn’t be in until morning. Mike would mail letters to the office, he reasoned. One letter to Harvey, Donna, and Rachel at Pearson Hardman would be less likely to get lost in transit than three separate letters to three separate places. 

Now that he’d officially been derailed from the actual work he had stayed to finish (it needed one last edit, which he could easily make Harold do tomorrow), he figured now was a good a time as any to go home and get some rest. He had a potential client to meet at eleven, which means he didn’t have to be awake until nine. He could still get a good night’s sleep. 

He stood up at his desk and stretched, bones groaning from being hunched over a desk for hours on end. 

Mail would come in the morning. It would be there when he got in tomorrow. 

He’d wait until tomorrow then.


	3. Chapter 3

To: hspecter@dayrep.us, dpaulsen@gambit.net, rzane@teleworm.us  
From: michaeljross@us.navy.mil  
Subject: Hey Everyone!

Sorry, I haven’t been able to message anyone. I’ve been out in the field, so we haven’t had computers… or mail for a while.

Thanks for the _care_ package (you see what I did there, Harvey?). The smokes you sent (and I know it was you, no one but you would stick a box of Dunhills in there with the Marlboros) definitely come in handy for bartering. We actually managed to trade some of them for a dog in one of the towns that we visited. We named him Barton. We still have no idea what breed he is, but he keeps trying to herd us when we run in formation. If we don’t pay close attention, it will actually work too. Fortunately, the cadre seems to find it funny so they're letting us train his as a "working dog".

Things are pretty dull around here most of the time. We find ways to keep ourselves amused though. We play a lot of cards. I think that at this point even you wouldn’t be able to read my poker face, Donna. (And, yes, that is a challenge. The stakes: garlic bread to go with the pizza that I owe you. Deal?)

Rachel, the truly amazing variety of snacks that you sent has made you “a legend and a hero”, actual quote, over here. I think you’ve gotten more than a dozen marriage proposals from the guys in my team. And I think some of them might be serious because they’ve started challenging each other to duels.

We’re going back out in a few days, so I won’t be able to respond to any messages for a little while. I’ll talk to you again when we get back, though. 

Later!  
Mike

P.S: Sent a picture of the youngest member of the team. His credentials are impeccable. He’s got an I.Q. off the register. Better than 20/20 in both eyes. And the heart of an ox. 

Attachments: [Barton.jpg](http://www.flickr.com/photos/btcooper/5019242064/) (92 kB)


	4. Chapter 4

_Hot couldn’t even begin to describe it_ , he thought leaning against the back of the foldout chair in which he was currently seated. 

He closed the issued laptop in front of him with a small smile. It had been nice to get that package from back home and even nicer to finally have access to a computer so that he could actually respond. 

Absently, his hand brushed this pocket where the letter that had come with the package still was. He had tried to tell himself that he had only put and kept it there out of convenience, but had long since given up on that particular lie. 

_Sentimentality, thy name is Michael._

It wasn’t even as if he _needed_ to physically carry the letter on him. He had long since memorized every detail of it, but still, there was something comforting about having the actual, physical thing there with him. 

He stood, firmly removing himself from his train of thought and turned to leave the small communication station. Off in the not-so-distant distance, he could see a sign showing the current temperature. He looked despite knowing that he _really_ didn’t want to know. 

93 degrees. And that wasn’t even factoring his long sleeves. 

Ugh. 

Actually having a number to go with the heat somehow only made it more miserable. 

Somewhat sullenly, he started back towards his quarters. The workday had long since ended and he had a whole mess of paperwork that he could be working on. The glories of being an officer. 

Absently, he wondered where Barton had gotten off to. Knowing some of the soldiers that they shared the base with, they had commandeered him for a “training exercise”. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what they were actually doing. 

He thought of the letter he had received that morning. 

_Dear Mike,_

_I hope this gets to you well and that I didn’t botch the address too badly. Donna, Harvey, and I sent you a few things. Things that you might not be able to get over there._

_I didn’t know how many people are on your team, so I hope there’s enough to go around. We also didn’t know what everyone likes, so we sent some of everything we could think of snack-wise._

The box had a nice weight to it and he had always been a bit too inquisitive for his own good. Curiosity roused, he had looked inside it.

Dear God. How many people did she think there were? 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a corner of a photo sticking out from underneath the snack foods and care goods that seemed to be stuffed tightly into the box. He pulled on the edge to free it and to his surprise, several more photos revealed themselves. 

He looked over the photos, slowly committing each to memory. Most of them appeared to be taken stealthily, as if to catch everyone on film as he had left them. 

Donna at her desk working (running the world, he mentally added). 

A _very_ stealthily taken shot of Harvey and Grammy in his office having lunch.

He smiled to himself. He worried that Grammy would be lonely when he left. It was nice to see that Harvey, Rachel, and Donna were looking after her while he was away. 

Harvey totally cared. 

The next one was of Rachel making a silly face at the camera. 

He had laughed at that one. Leave it to Rachel to add one truly ridiculous photo in a series of otherwise serious pictures. 

He returned his attention to the letter. 

_Donna tells me that she would like to take this opportunity to remind you that you owe her food and she is holding you to that. Apparently, she takes promises of food very seriously._

_Harold also says hi. He insisted that we send some of those flavor packets for water along with the snacks, so there are some of those in the box too. Again, we have no idea what kind everyone likes so we tried to put a little bit of everything in there. Actually, come to think of it, I think he might have literally bought one box of everything._

_We picked up a couple of things for Barton too. We got that picture you attached, he’s a cutie (even though he’s a serious working dog). We got some little things: some treats (the good stuff, not that fake jerky stuff, the real deal), a brush, something to chew on: the basics. I refrained from getting a squeaking toy; I know how dogs can be with those. You’d probably disable the squeaker within a week!_

_Anyways, I’ll write again soon!_

_Stay safe!_

_Rachel_

And if he immediately put the stack of pictures in his pocket closest to his heart, he did it for purely practical reasons. 

…

…

…

Even he didn’t believe that one.


	5. Chapter 5

The envelope came on a Tuesday. It was a plain thing, worn from traveling some unknown distance through unknown conditions. Beneath the various stamps and handwritten notes from numerous redirects, it was adorned with a familiar scrawl. One that she had often seen. One that she had come to miss over the past months. 

She smiled a bit as her hand tightened around the envelope. 

LT MICHAEL J ROSS  
UNIT 5213  
FPO AE 09739-4398 

Mentally, she made note of the return address; it was different from the last one. 

A faded yellow stamp was affixed in the top right corner of the envelope. It was plain. Simple. And it offered no hints as to its origin. It was too nondescript to be unintentional. 

He had put a lot of thought into the stamp, apparently. She felt a brief twinge realizing that neither she nor anyone else knew where he was and probably would not, or could not, be told. She shook the feeling away; he was safe. That’s all that really mattered. 

“Harvey,” she called out, entering his office, not bothering to knock. “You’ve got mail.”

“Leave it on my desk,” he replied, not looking up from the briefs. 

She strode over to his side and placed it directly on top of his papers. 

It took him a moment to process the letter, but as soon as he did his face morphed into a barely concealed smile. She laughed a bit to herself. Harvey wasn’t fooling anyone with his “not caring” nonsense and moments like this proved it. 

He tore open the envelope, ignoring the letter opener two feet to his right. 

_Harvey (and Donna),_

She stifled a burst of laughter. He knew her too well. 

_I got your message. Sorry for replying the old-fashioned way, but we kind of left in a hurry and we don’t have internet access out here. I’m out in the field right now, so things are kind of slow for a bit, but they can pick up at any minute. But for now we’re kind of just in the middle of nowhere._

_We actually had some spare time and were allowed to leave the base for a little while today. I was able to go into the city. It’s no Manhattan, but it was nice to get out anyways. (I found some things that I thought were pretty cool. If there was a package with this, then that’s what it is if not, then it’s on its way. And I apologize in advance for the boxes within boxes; I wanted to make sure everything got there together. I actually mailed the package before the letter in hopes that they’d get there around the same time. But who knows with fleet mail, it could get there in ten years.)_

_Well, I’ve got to go. It looks like something might actually be happening. I’ll write again as soon as I get back to base._

_Later,  
Mike _

_P.S: Harvey, I can practically hear you criticizing my taste in movies from all the way over here. I’ll have you know that Gattaca was, and still is, a phenomenal movie._

Harvey snorted as he reached the end of the letter, but didn’t say anything to the contrary. Not that he’d ever admit it to Mike, but he had definitely seen Gattaca more than a few times himself. 

“Was there a package with it?” he inquired, curious despite himself. 

“I’ll check with mail,” she said, walking briskly to her desk and picking up the phone. 

He nodded, suddenly feeling a bit like a child at Christmas; he had never been good with the waiting part. He always got unreasonably restless. 

She came back a few moments later. 

“They’re sending it up now,” she relayed. “They were going to hold off on delivering it until one, but I insisted.” 

She leaned casually against his desk, glancing over the handwritten letter again.

“It’s nice to hear from him,” she remarked. 

Harvey made a noise to the affirmative, gently placing the letter and its envelope down on his desk. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it is” he smiled back at her.

Now where was Dave with that package...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Barton gets some much needed training and Mike gets some much needed rest.

“Barton,” he called. “Come here, boy.” 

From behind him, the jangling of a makeshift collar grew closer. He waited for a few more seconds until he felt a light bump of a tiny head against his leg. 

“Good boy,” he murmured, scratching behind the dog’s ears affectionately. 

Kneeling down to the ground next to his canine companion, he pulled a small duffel close to him. Unzipping it with a quick snap of the wrist, he began to remove various bits of tactical gear from the bag. The dog whined, shooting him a truly piteous look. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he frowned at the dog. “If I have to train in full gear, so do you.” 

“Think of it this way,” he continued. “We’re putting you in the gear because soon you’ll be able to come out into the field with us, Mr. Almost-Done-With-Training.” 

He pulled a khaki harness snugly around Barton’s chest, clipping it into place. 

“All set,” he declared, patting the dog firmly on the side. “Let’s get you over to training. Don’t want you to be late for class.” 

Barton’s tongue lolled out of his mouth and he looked excitedly at him, prior discontent seemingly forgotten. He couldn’t help but crack a small smile at the dog’s sheer happiness, as he led him towards the training grounds.

“God, I wish I could be as excited as you are about training,” he sighed wistfully. 

His companion continued to trot alongside him, panting happily, seemingly oblivious to his envy. 

Despite the fact that it was later in the day, the heat from the sun was intense and sweat beaded his brow only seconds after stepping outside. He groaned at the prospect of the ten-minute walk to the training arena. 

Barton huffed, seemingly in agreement about the unbearable heat. 

“Well, the sooner we start walking, the sooner we’ll get there,” he muttered, tugging on the lead. 

The dog continued on, seemingly ignoring his complaints. They walked on companionably, feet purposefully moving against the dusty path. 

“Almost there, boy.” 

He almost sighed in relief as the training grounds came into view. It really was way too hot outside. 

The “arena”, as it was commonly called, was little more than an empty space where there didn’t currently happen to be tents. Off to the side, a single folding table had been set up where a couple of soldiers from the joint base stood with clipboards and pens, waiting for their scheduled appointment. 

“Specialist Beaufort,” he greeted, shifting Barton’s lead to his other hand.

“Lieutenant Ross,” the soldier replied. 

“Checking in Barton for his detection training.”

“Yes, sir” the specialist acknowledged, making a note on a clipboard. 

“We’re almost done setting up. It should only be another minute or so.” 

Mike nodded. The men stood in a companionable silence; Barton’s pants the only noise between them for a good minute.

“They’re ready for you, Lieutenant” 

“Thank you, Specialist Beaufort,” he replied, turning to leave. 

“Come on, Barton” he prodded, giving a gentle tug on the lead. 

Barton followed without complaint. 

He unclipped the harness as soon as he set foot into the arena. He quickly surveyed the course. Random items were scattered throughout the otherwise open space: several duffels, a basketball, a decently sized pile of boxes, trash bags, along with little odds and ends strewn everywhere. Barton would have to find his target among all these distractions. He had no doubt that he could do that; he had trained the dog himself. 

“Barton, search,” he commanded. 

The dog immediately tore off towards the practice arena. 

Mike watched him sniff around, careful to leave his face blank as to not unintentionally give Barton clues as to which bag he was looking for. 

After a few moments of searching, he stopped and growled, pawing at the ground in front of a black trash bag near the northwest corner of the space. 

Mike nodded, signaling the tester to check the bag for the fake explosives. 

He watched with barely concealed happiness as the tester confirmed the location of the explosives. Barton ran back to him, tongue lolling happily.

“Good boy,” he muttered, handing the dog a small treat from a pocket of his pants. 

Barton eagerly snapped it up, wagging his tail at the praise. 

Mike kneeled down to scratch him behind the ears: a distraction while the testers moved to rearrange the field for another run.

At a nod from the tester, he stood again. 

“Round two. Barton, search.” 

The dog eagerly tore back to the field, newfound enthusiasm in his wagging tail. 

Eventually, he stopped in front of an old duffel bag and pawed at the ground in front of it. 

“Good boy,” he praised, as the testers, again, confirmed the location of the explosives. 

They continued on for nearly an hour, until the sun had nearly begun to set, moving and switching out the test explosives; each time Barton would find them and then rush back over to the anxiously waiting Lieutenant for praise and the occasional treat. 

“He’s doing well,” one of the testers, Specialist Richards, told him as they wrapped up the training session for the day. “If he keeps on at this rate, he should have no problems at his final test in,” he consulted a piece of paper in his hand “three weeks.” 

Mike reached down to give the dog a congratulatory scratch behind the ears.

“Hear that? You’re almost there, boy,” he encouraged. “A couple more weeks and you’ll be coming with us when we go out.” 

The dog leaned into his touch, reveling in the attention. 

“If you could just sign here, sir,” Richards said, handing over the papers indicating that Barton had completed an additional week of training. 

Barton whined as Mike removed his hand from his head to sign the papers. 

He huffed out a quiet laugh at the dog’s antics, “Jeez, calm down. It’ll only take a second.” 

He handed the clipboard back to the Specialist, who gave it a quick once-over before nodding. 

“Everything looks in order, sir. Next detection training is scheduled to be one week from today, same time.”

He nodded his acknowledgement. “We’ll be here. Thanks.” 

“C’mon boy,” he muttered, gently tugging the dog along as he headed towards the exit of the arena. 

Fortunately, the setting of the sun cooled the air so that the return walk was nowhere near as miserable as the walk to the arena. Now that Barton had finished his training for the week, the rest of his off-duty time could be spent however he wanted. He could maybe listen to some music, or maybe write home, or maybe even read a book; he had rec time for once! 

He stopped to breathe in the cool air, already enjoying his precious several hours of free time. Next to him, Barton stopped, closing his eyes happily, as he too enjoyed the outside air. 

He smiled and stooped to remove Barton’s harness. Free time for him meant free time for Barton. 

Barton’s ears perked at the sound of the plastic clips of his harness being undone. He knew what that sound meant: play time. Sure enough, the second he could squirm out of the undone harness, he was out and running ahead of his handler, stopping several feet up the path to bark cheerfully at Mike. 

Mike stood, harness and lead in hand, and continued the walk back to his quarters. His companion trotted along happily, alternating between running several feet ahead and affectionately winding around his handler’s legs. 

He’d be worn out by the time they got back to quarters, Mike thought to himself. He could almost envision it now: Barton curled on the floor lazily chewing on his favorite toy, the distant whirring of a helicopter that he didn’t have to be on, and him, laying on his bed, writing letters to send home. 

Honestly, after such a long week, that was all he really wanted to be doing: nothing. 

He had so little free time these days that he would definitely be making the most of it.

He quickened his pace to catch up with the dog. He could practically hear his bed calling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I am terribly sorry about the absurdly long time it took to update: last year was essentially a series of not-good thing after not-good thing and ended up having virtually no time to write anything at all. This story has not been abandoned, though, and the next update will not take nearly as long. 
> 
> Some fun trivia about this chapter: 
> 
> [1] The “jangling” from Barton’s makeshift collar is the sound of actual dog tags. As a joke (on the personnel office), Mike’s team decided to try to slip a “fake sailor” (Barton) into the system, fully expecting to get found out. Instead, he became the George P. Burdell of the Navy. His tags say:
> 
> ROSS   
> BARTON C.   
> 911-31-4157 USN   
> NO PREFERENCE 
> 
> Barton Canine Ross is his “full name”. His “social security/ID number” literally spells out I AM A DOG. (9[I] 1-13[AM] 1[A] 4-15-7[DOG])
> 
> [2] Since they got away with the "fake sailor" prank, Mike's unit jokingly refer to Barton as “Warrant Officer Ross”. When they’re feeling particularly mischievous they’ll find a reason to send the new guys on a quest for the Warrant Officer Ross. Inevitably, they won’t be able to find him because
> 
> 1\. Warrant Officers aren’t a rank in the Navy anymore and haven’t been since the mid-seventies, and  
> 2\. They can only find a Lieutenant Ross. 
> 
> About half of the comedy of the prank is it's a toss-up whether or not the Lieutenant Ross is going to play along or not; which, if he's feeling particularly bored, he might.


End file.
